


Redamancy

by candlelight660



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Superman - All Media Types
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Getting Together, Hurt Bruce Wayne, Light Angst, M/M, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-07
Updated: 2020-09-07
Packaged: 2021-03-07 03:20:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,302
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26346238
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/candlelight660/pseuds/candlelight660
Summary: It was a nasty fall that did it. A blast he did not expect, did not account for. He jumps, his muscle memory kicking in as he reaches for his grapple gun. His hand clutches empty space, his gun is not there. When Clark first watched the footage, he did not realize it either.***Bruce is injured after a fight. It helps Clark evaluate their relationship and what that word mean for them.
Relationships: Clark Kent/Bruce Wayne
Comments: 12
Kudos: 214





	Redamancy

**Author's Note:**

> This is one of those rare times where I'm actually happy about how this turned out.
> 
> I hope you guys enjoy it as much as I enjoy writing for these two! It is always a blast.

The Watchtower was quieter than usual. For a place that knew no sleep, it was always a different kind of buzz than metropolitan cities. Inhabited areas were noisy; people living through different cycles of a day, the noise pollution caused by inorganic sounds was a background track for most.

The Watchtower was never too loud. With many beings possessing different sets of senses, the machines were designed to run with a bearable hum, people around trying to be careful about how much they raised their voice. It was not only for respect of others but for a sense of privacy as well, if spoken any stronger than soft conversation, someone was bound to start paying attention.

The rooms were different. From day one, they agreed that every member was allowed to their piece of mind, their personal time belonging to them. They had contingencies in place, however, if someone was thought to have gone rouge or were a danger to themselves and others.

Clark knew all of these because he was there when the mastermind behind all this was explaining it. He watched him, carefully, a sense of awe mixing with some of his disbeliefs. He did not know him very well then, didn’t trust him the same, the man that he handed kryptonite with his own free will now.

The same man he was watching again, this time Bruce bounded to a bed rather than talk with an impeccable posture and a clear, almost apathetic stance.

It made Clark’s stomach turn, clenching strongly, almost mimicking the symptoms of dizziness.

What was that thing Bruce always said? Mind had a strong control over the body, that was it. A man who knew what his body could take or couldn’t, knew every sheer limitation he possessed and every advantage he ever could have. It was hard for Clark to not take his word for it.

Not that those words did him any good now.

It was not anything out of the ordinary, the attack. It was not alien, not even a foreign power but the familiarity was a strong threat, all the same.

It was Joker; surprisingly acting coordinated well enough with Two-Face that did the trick. When Batman, over the comms, in a growly sound, said everything was under control, no one questioned him.

Clark believed Bruce’s trust for the League was built over the years well enough that he would ask for support if he needed it. Batman did not like other heroes in Gotham, not ones he hasn’t trained under his wing anyway. No one pushes it when it is about his city.

It was a nasty fall that did it. A blast he did not expect, did not account for. He jumps, his muscle memory kicking in as he reaches for his grapple gun. His hand clutches empty space, his gun is not there. When Clark first watched the footage, he did not realize it either.

It was Harley who did it. She attacked him mere minutes before the attack, seeming as one of those futile routines to get at Batman. Bruce gets away from her attacks with ease but it is only a decoy; it is actually about disarming him. Clark knows in his bones Bruce would realize this, if Joker did not get out a detonator.

This is also a decoy, as this detonator only exists for a fake bomb. That’s when Bruce has an opening for Harley to grab his grapple gun, getting away with somersaults. The fight starts getting more distanced after that, Bruce easily catching up with this fact but the real explosion even surprises him.

He doesn’t go down without a fight. His body opens up at first, his extremities ready to catch anything to stop his fall. There is no tension in his body, unlike the humans Clark has caught many times. There is a practiced ease, an acceptance rather than instinctive fighting. None of this was surprising to Clark.

It is what comes next that has kept him in that room where he watches over Bruce’s body.

Bruce gets knocked out. The camera angle isn’t good enough to see the cause but the impact shocks Bruce, so much so that his reactionless face becomes expressional with surprise. His trained body becomes limp after that, like a dead weight dropped down. He hits an arch first, his body reacting to the impact as it bounces off and continues its inevitable descend to the ground.

The camera does not film the rest, more worried about the caped crusader than its need to capture this memorable moment. Batman, incapacitated by his rouge gallery, the pavement decorated by his cape and his blood.

He did not watch this part of the footage again and again. It was what came right before it, before the moment of impact from the unknown object. Before Bruce gets hit, his lips move. He didn’t quite catch it in the first viewing but in the second round, he saw it. It must have escaped the others or they simply chose to avoid it, thinking it was just a glitch or an expression.

Most of them didn’t have Superman’s vision. Any of them hadn’t seen the word uttered by Bruce like he had.

Clark watched it again and again, a sequence that didn’t last enough to rewind properly. He blamed his imagination first, making him think of things that weren’t there but by the sixth time, he wasn’t so sure.

It was the eleventh time that did the trick.

He wasn’t sure why. A part of him still refused to believe; accusing him of seeing things he wanted to see. Rest of him would bet his life on it.

The first syllable of his name never held such meaning for him. Inevitable grief, great shock. It was his _name._ Not Superman, not even Kal-El.

When Bruce fell, he called out for him. _Clark._

He never had the time to complete his calling out, didn’t even have time to produce the first part loudly. It got interrupted somewhere in the middle, the vowel ending and the ‘r’ sound beginning.

Clark Kent never had a problem with his name. It was quite straightforward, a simple name for a simple man.

His name never felt simple in Bruce’s mouth.

It held rage when Bruce would call him out in a plan he deemed conspicuous, trying to get his attention even further. They were fully in costume but arguing alone, their eyes never leaving each other’s gaze. His name felt bigger than it ever did in those moments, like small wave turning into a tidal surge. It washed over him with woeful aches, it drowned him with unfulfillable desires.

It held warning when Bruce would whisper at him when he was starting to get out of line, when his eyes threatened to turn red or his hands itching to show what they were really capable of. Such isolated incidents meant different inflictions on letters, his name sounding the closest Bruce would calmly plea someone. The placid feeling that settled in his body after hearing his name like that would make itself a permanent place in his soul.

It held sympathy when he was gravely injured. It happened once and sympathy was both an understatement and an oversimplification. Everything in his system was starting to fail, small shards of kryptonite stuck through his whole body. He didn’t feel scared, per se, but he called out for him. _Bruce. Bruce._ He shouldn’t have, compromising him by using his name but he couldn’t help himself. He felt like a wounded animal, calling out for its mate. It was silly, Bruce had never belonged to him nor would he ever but he came to him, indulging him the same way. _Clark. Clark._

He held Clark until they could get him out of there, holding him, caressing his hair. _Bruce. Please. Please._ He wasn’t sure what he was pleading for but it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered other than the hands touching him, the voice calling his name. _I am here. Clark. I am here. You are going to be fine. Clark. Clark._

When he faded into blackness, it was a comforting thought: the last thing he ever heard being Bruce, whispering his name, softly and over and over again.

What did Bruce think before he fainted?

Did he wonder why Clark wasn’t there to catch him in time, to hold him, like he had done for him?

They never talked about that incident with the shards. Even when he was free of the green crystals, Bruce had never brought it up and Clark sure as hell wasn’t going to. It was a momentary weakness Bruce allowed him to have and he felt grateful for it.

Did he think of that time, is that why he used his real name? Thinking that Clark would react quicker, pick up his name being muttered faster?

Did it mean what it meant for Clark?

He needed to know.

***

Bruce didn’t wake up until four days later. He slipped in and out of consciousness twice but was in no condition to talk about what Clark wanted, _needed_ him to.

Clark, on the other hand, spent every last bit of his free time in that room. He would even patrol over Gotham, even though he didn’t need to. Gotham was protected plenty but he felt the urge to look after Bruce’s city, just like Bruce had done for his many times before.

He wasn’t able to protect the man but he could protect the city that Bruce would gladly give his life for. Almost did for.

It was a shuddering thought and he felt angry towards Gotham, towards a place for almost stealing –

He always left that part empty, in that sentence. He refused to fill it, even in his head, without answers.

When Bruce woke up, he was even less sure he was going to get any.

It wasn’t that Bruce didn’t seem coherent or weak; it was Clark’s own nerves that were getting to him. He knew this was going to be a tipping point in their relationship but towards what or where, he did not know.

He knew Bruce was waking up before the man ever opened his eyes. He let his presence be known to him, walking up to the bed slowly, moving in deliberate pace. He sat on the bed, making sure to give Bruce some space.

“I take it that this is not afterlife.” Clark wasn’t sure on Bruce’s beliefs but that was a whole other conversation for another day. All he could do was state the obvious. “No, still here.” _Here with us. Here with me._

“You look like shit.” Bruce was, if nothing, to the point. Clark would usually smile or scratch the back of his neck with such a remark, trying to come up with something clever. That was also for another day.

“You scared the shit out of me.” Bruce looked dumbfounded by that sentence. It was an unusual look for a man that trained himself on stoicism with a dash of self-deprecating sarcasm. Bruce realized the atmosphere of this conversation shifting from the usual after-injury banter to something more profound.

When the other man tried to sit up straighter, Clark helped him. Bruce took that as a sign also, trying to hold his body like he was facing impact head on. Perhaps, he was.

Clark tried to cover his bases when he spoke. “You called out for me. Didn’t have time to fully say it but I saw the footage Bruce. You were calling out for me. Not Batman to Superman, _you_ to _me._ ” He always thought he would feel small in such a conversation with Bruce, becoming intimidated or scared, at rejection or declination.

Instead, Clark couldn’t remember the last time he felt this powerful.

Perhaps it was the dropping of the weights that relieved him. The weight of being crushed under carrying his feelings around like a secret, like a teenage boy having a crush.

The teenager in him was long gone, Clark had realized. They were grown adults and Bruce was going to be a part of this conversation, whether he liked it or not.

Bruce had yet to join the dialogue, though. He kept his expression as neutral as possible but his eyes were on Clark. His body language was open to him, and in Bruce’s way, he was showing that he was listening attentively rather than running away.

It was okay. Bruce could pitch in when he wanted to. Clark learnt to be patient over the years and his sentences were far from finished.

“Like I did for you, when I was injured with the shards.” He felt an overwhelming feeling to grab Bruce’s hand, to have some form of physical contact but even he wasn’t ready to push it that far.

Clark’s eyes wandered off to the ground, losing his newly found courage for a few seconds. The words seemed to pile up as his quiet went longer but he, also, refused to run away. Clark always thought Bruce was the better fighter between them but it was Clark’s turn to fight now, no turning back.

“You held me. You held me and you whispered my name, again and again and… Then we never talked about it. It was easier to try to forget, I guess, simpler. You didn’t call me out at calling you by your _name,_ in a mission and I couldn’t push it. I was so goddamn afraid…” His words trailed off as his lips turned up with an ugly grimace, his eyes threatening to water. “Then you almost fell to your death, calling out my name and I didn’t care anymore. I don’t care Bruce. This –” Clark indicated the space between them with his hand, like it made up for the lack of explanation. Bruce’s softening eyes were all the confirmation he needed to know that it was.

Bruce didn’t mock him with his words, like Clark was afraid he would. Bruce Wayne could be many things when he wanted, and cruel was an easy mask he could slip into. He didn’t avert his gaze from Clark, didn’t try to avoid him.

He simply uttered a word, like it was all that easy.

“Okay.”

Huh.

Maybe it was that easy.

“Okay?” Clark couldn’t help but echo. He didn’t even tell Bruce what he wanted from him, from _them_.

“Let’s try.” Clark couldn’t believe his ears. When he pinched his left forearm, Bruce produced a laugh that Clark could only categorize as bright. It didn’t calm his worries. “I’m pretty sure you are concussed.”

He couldn’t stop his eyes from clenching when Bruce laughed again. “Yeah. Probably.” When he tried to get closer to Clark, Clark lifted himself off to come to him. When Bruce spoke, it was smooth, like this was the only conversation that ever mattered to him. Bruce’s eyes closed a little, looking at Clark’s lips before catching his eyes again, a glint settling in that there wasn’t before. “That’s a nice trick.”

Clark gulped loudly when he realized it: _Bruce was flirting with him._

Holy shit.

Out of all the scenarios that he was prepared for, this was not one of them.

When he felt Bruce’s body move with more laughter, Clark’s body went lax with that wonderful sound, although some parts of his body warned him about _straining,_ he realized he had said his last thought out loud.

Bruce’s answer was also something he did not expect. “I guess we are rubbing off at each other. You, making the plans; me, acting as I please.” Clark couldn’t help but respond with, “This, this is pleasing you?”

The expression that settled on Bruce’s face was more Bat than Bruce, hard lines and shadowy eyes. Clark’s control on his body’s response was slipping away, fast. “You are always pleasing to me, even if you drive me crazy sometimes.”

Two could play this game. Clark lowered his voice a little, making sure it sounded deeper. “Wouldn’t be as charming if I didn’t drive you crazy.”

Bruce smirked at his sentence, a hungry look joining his dark demeanor. _Fuck._ Clark did not mind being devoured by him, not a single bit. “You are right. Mistake on my part. You drive me _fucking insane,_ ” Bruce got a little closer. “All.” A bit closer, Clark could now clearly see the hair follicles that were growing into stubble. “The.” Clark felt Bruce’s breath on his lips. “Time.”

The bastard didn’t kiss him. Their lips were barely inches apart but Bruce kept perfectly still, looking into Clark’s eyes.

Searching, Clark realized. The act of the charmer had been dropped. Bruce needed Clark to take the step for them, to make sure he was ready for that.

Bruce was giving him an out, like the time with the shard incident. If Clark withdrew himself now and walked away, this could be what they both remembered as a what-if moment.

Clark had enough what-ifs in his life.

Nearly losing Bruce had taught him that.

The kiss wasn’t particularly nice. It wasn’t sweet or chaste, like most dreamed of a first kiss with someone. Clark never expected anything like that for his first kiss with Bruce, from a man that held the night in his hands and lived more passionately than the Sun itself.

No; it was pent-up energy finding physical release, crushing their lips together, teeth hitting, tongues sliding, hands grabbing, two bodies trying to desperately press into each other.

It was all Clark could ever want.

He didn’t realize when he ended on top of Bruce. The duvet that was covering the other man was long gone, clothing being the only thing separating their bodies. When Clark tried to pull away, Bruce went up with him, almost chasing him. Fuck.

“Bruce. Bruce. You shouldn’t exert yourself. You can be actually concussed even though the imaging of your brain was fine. I – I should get someone and –”

“Clark, shut up.”

The command was sharp but not annoying, as Bruce sounded breathless. When Clark obeyed, he got to take in Bruce after being kissed. His dark hair pointing at different directions, flush settling on his cheeks and going down his neck, his eyes seeming almost bigger, his lips nearly bruised, his chest moving faster.

It was so pretty that Clark actually got distracted.

“Say my name.”

That was not how Clark thought the rest of Bruce’s sentence would go. The only thing he could respond with even sounded dumb to his ears. “Oh?”

Bruce didn’t care to comment on that. “Say my name.”

Was this a test? That was the first thought to cross Clark’s mind. No, he decided immediately after. They were passed that; he could feel it in his gut.

He said it slowly, savoring the way he was free to pronounce it. “Bruce.”

His expression changed when he heard Clark say it. He seemed breathless, his lashes fluttering, a hint of a smile on his swollen lips.

Bruce looked… happy.

It was a good look on him, the best thing that Bruce had ever worn. Not the masks, not the suits; just this. Being happy.

Clark’s heart started to pound so fast in his chest that he was sure Bruce was hearing it, enhanced senses or not.

“Clark.”

He understood why Bruce reacted in such a way. He wouldn’t be able to change his reaction even if it cost him his life, hearing Bruce say his name like that; a goofy smile taking a hold of his face, looking down adoringly, chest heaving.

“Bruce.”

“Clark.”

“Bruce.” “Clark.”

Nothing was perfect in their lives. Nothing would be perfect but it was never about that.

As long as they got to say each other’s names, everything was fine.

Better than perfect.

**Author's Note:**

> [let me kind of ruin the last part of this fic for you](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DXaBNICc9KQ)   
>  [I'm trying the tumblr thing again](https://alivenowgoodlater.tumblr.com/)


End file.
